


Whatever It Takes

by KnittingBatman



Series: Mighty Nein Vignettes [1]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Caleb Widogast/Bad Decisions, Caleb Widogast/Unhappiness, Caleb's Actions Are His Own, Caleb's POV, Caleb's mom and dad are Worried For Their Son, Gen, POV Outsider, Parent's POV, Still love this funky little wizard but he sure makes Mistakes, That's right guys its on, for better or for worse, no fake memories, this is a sad time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-21 06:59:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17038967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KnittingBatman/pseuds/KnittingBatman
Summary: Caleb's parents have always known their son is destined for greatness, and when a powerful man recognizes that potential they are overjoyed. But soon they begin to have doubts and those doubts have dire consequences.





	Whatever It Takes

**Author's Note:**

> This story came from me asking myself what if Caleb's memories weren't fakes implanted by Ikithon? What if the trio came up with the idea for killing their parents on their own? and how would Caleb's parents react to seeing how their son acts once he leaves for the academy? and Voila! this story was born.
> 
> This is my first Critical Role fic, hope you enjoy!
> 
>  
> 
> Also if any of the German is wrong don't @ me its all google German RIP.

They had been overjoyed when their son—their intelligent, powerful boy—had been chosen to go to the academy. They smiled inwardly at the thought that he would trade in his plain farmers' clothes for the expensive finery of someone who  _mattered._  They knew (as nearly all parents know) that their child was special, that he among all others was destined for something more. And they relished the fact that they were no longer the only ones who could see that potential, that another had seen their son as a diamond in the rough. And for that, Trent Ikithon could do no wrong in their eyes. For surely, if he could cut so trenchantly to the truth of their son, even under the dirt and dust of the fields, then so could he put his sharp wits use as a tutor and a tactician. Ikithon, they knew, would bring their son to greatness.

 

Of course they were sad to see their son go, (they would miss his warm presence at their dinner table—would miss seeing his head bent over a book, a candle stub melting into nothingness beside him—would miss hearing him in the next room playing with his cat as she meowed and purred in contentment—would miss everything about him) but they knew that his departure gave him a chance at a brilliant future—one he’d never reach if he stayed in Blumenthal—and so they gladly endured his absence. And although he was gone, they still felt his presence; the whole town was abuzz with chatter of the chosen three. They preened under the envious glares of their friends and neighbors and dined often with the families of the other two, wondering what great skills their children were learning that day.

 

And of course, their son came to visit them during his (very rare) breaks from schooling, and while he was home they would fawn over him to their heart’s content. They joyously remarked on his neatly coiffed hair! His dashing coat with its subtle, yet beautiful, gold trim! His amazing displays of magic! (Nothing more than a simple parlor trick he told them). But inevitably the day of his departure would come, and their waiting would resume. When they sat together in their empty house at night, absentmindedly petting the head of their son’s cat, they would smile at each other and consider it a price well-paid.

 

But as time wore on, less and less of their son returned. It began with small things—a hardness around his eyes that hadn’t been there before, a rigidity to his posture, a more taciturn nature—all things that could be attributed to a boy becoming a man. But soon the changes became more profound and neither one could deny that inch by inch they were losing their son. Now that they were aware, the changes in their son became glaringly obvious, reverberating through all of his actions.

 

They felt it in the callous haughtiness that shined from his cold eyes as they walked through the once-loved streets of Blumenthal. They felt it in the disdain that dripped from his voice when he talked of the enemies of the Empire that he would crush beneath the finely-soled heel of his boot. They felt it when he spat venomous curses at peasants who dared to ask the Empire for more than they deserved.

 

They felt it when they heard him boast excitedly about the accomplishments of his friends Astrid and Eodwulf, praising them for their decisive actions in an interrogation or their quick wits in a battle. His eyes shone as he spun his parents tales of their accomplishments as a triad, of their power, of their place as guardians of the Empire. Perversely, in these moments, they caught a glimpse of their old son—the one whose eyes overflowed with love for his parents, for his cat, for learning—this new version of their son still bled love from his eyes (and certainly it _was_ love), but it was twisted and oily and hungry.

 

They felt it in his unquestioning, unwavering dedication to Ikithon. He would brook no disrespect for the man. They had learned this one night when he’d come home with dark circles under his eyes and bruises and burns up his arms and his mother had exclaimed, “ _Mein Gott!_ What has he done to you!”

“Nothing!” He’d barked, “only what needed to be done to make me strong.”

And when they’d tried to press the issue, telling him it wasn’t right, that this was _abuse_ , he’d snarled wordlessly, grabbed his coat, slammed the door behind him, and stalked off into the night. After that, he didn’t come home for eight months and his parents never broached the subject with him again.

 

When he finally did return, they trapped him in their warm embrace, tears of elation and fear and joy and despair running down their faces. He stood stoically in their embrace, and when their wave of emotion finally receded he nodded curtly at them and retreated to his room without a word.

 

One night soon after, when the changes had become too much for them to bear, they spoke plainly in their small candlelit kitchen. His mother spoke first. “He is different now, is he not,  _Mein Schatz_?”

 

“ _Ja_ ,” his father replied, “we must do something — and soon.”

 

“It is that place! It is that _verdammt_ man, filling his head with poison! We must get him away out of there!”

 

“You are right,  _Liebling_. But how? I fear we are too late — he will never leave Ikithon or his cronies willingly and he is too powerful for us to force him to do anything he does not wish to do.”

 

“I know,” she sighed, screwing her eyes up tight as tears of frustration began to pool there. “But we cannot do nothing! We are losing him, and fast. Perhaps we can convince him to come traveling with us. Once he’s away from that man perhaps we can make him see the truth! I know we don’t have much saved, but if we sell the farm we would have enough to make it to the Menagerie Coast—of course, we wouldn’t have enough money to come back and there would be nothing to come back to... and that’s assuming we are even able to convince him to come with us in the first place...” her voice trailed off into nothingness as she contemplated the gravity of her suggestion. They would be giving up their life, their home, their history all for the tiniest chance that they would be able to save their son. She looked into her husband’s eyes and saw her own determination reflected back in them (it was something they both shared with their son— they would do anything, pay any price to achieve their goals). They would do it. They had to.

 

“ _Ja_ ,” he said. “Perhaps we can tell him that he will have the opportunity to learn new magic when we reach the coast, that traveling with us will help make him even more powerful.”

 

She nodded. Her voice was steely as she said, “We can go into town tomorrow and try to sell the farm, the Meiers have been trying to expand their property for years now, we can go to them first. They are also the richest family in town, so they can afford to pay us in gold right away-”

 

“ _Ja, Liebling_ ,” he said, cutting her off as her voice became more fevered, “but that must wait until tomorrow. We have our plan, we know what to do, and tomorrow we will do it. For now, it is late, let us go to bed.”

 

She smiled softly, ruefully and said “ _Ja_ , sorry. You know how I worry”

 

“I do,” he said. “I worry too. But we will do no good if we are not well-rested and sharp tomorrow,” and with that, they walked up the stairs to their bedroom.

 

 

* * *

* * *

 

They didn’t know (for, how could they?) that their son and his friends had been standing just outside the house, that the trio had snuck away from Ikithon for a night to keep tabs on their parents, to prove to him that they were free of sentiment, that they’d do whatever needed to be done. They didn’t know that the three young mages had heard their every word drift out into the sleepy summer night. They didn’t know how their son would twist their words in his mind. They were disparaging Ikithon, his master! They wanted to kidnap him, to  _brainwash_  him! They wanted to flee the Empire! For him it was simple—they were traitors.

 

After years of training, he knew exactly what he had to do. Arcane energy crackled at his fingertips as he ordered Astrid and Eodwulf to push the cart in front of the door. It had been a dry summer and the house was made of old, parched wood, so it didn’t take long for a spark to become an inferno. The flames were licking ravenously at the sides of the house in an instant.

The screams, however, took a surprisingly long time to begin. For several moments the trio stood quietly in front of a silent, flaming house. Then the house began to groan, the old beams and floorboards cracking and popping in agony. Next came Frumpkin, her panicked yowling growing louder and louder as the heat became more intense. And then finally, _finally_ , came the human screams.

 

He couldn’t make out their words over the roar of the fire, but he savored the sounds of their panic. He imagined standing before Ikithon and telling him the news. Telling Ikithon how he’d taken control of the situation, taken the initiative to preemptively eliminate the threat just as Ikithon had always taught them to do. That he is loyal only to the Empire, only to Ikithon. That _he_ had disposed of his traitorous family _first_. He imagines Astrid and Eodwulf glaring at him jealously as Ikithon raises him up and tells him he is the best of the three. He imagines with a shiver how Ikithon will whisper in his ear, “You have always been the best of them.” A smug smile spreads across his face as he relishes the screams that pierce the air and the crisp smell of burning flesh that wafts on the lazy summer breeze because he knows that they are the spoils of his victory. That they prove his worth. He even wonders idly for a second if the wind will spread the fire to the rest of the town. It would serve them right he thinks — useless peasants.

 

Then, suddenly, his old self is comes crashing back to him. He cannot say why. Perhaps it is the detached boredom he sees on the faces of Astrid and Eodwulf as if they cannot wait for this spectacle to be done so that they can complete their own tasks. Perhaps it is the sight of his parents in the upstairs window, their bodies wracked with hideous coughs as they inhale the poisonous smoke. Perhaps it is because the glimpse he catches of himself in the warping window panes, and the monstrosity he finds there. Or perhaps it is the combination of all three, convening at the perfect moment

 

Whatever the reason, his eyes soften and once again he is the quiet sensitive boy who yearned to be something more. He is the boy who hoarded books like they were gold and loved his parents and his cat. He is home, and he is safe. No, no, no, he thinks, he is not safe- he is home, but he is not safe. Why? He cannot remember. Even with his flawless memory, he cannot say how he came to be standing here.

 

He is home and his house is burning and his parents are screaming and he is the one to blame. Spurred to action by this thought, he darts forward, frantically trying to push the cart out of the way, to open the door, not caring how the flames sear his hands and arms and cause the skin to blacken and blister.

 

He doesn’t hear the confused shouts of Astrid and Eodwulf behind him as they rush forward to pull him away from the cart. He struggles under their ironclad grip, still trying desperately to undo what he’s done. But even with the power of adrenaline in his veins, pushing him beyond his limits, he is no match for their strength. As they drag him away, the burst of energy leaves him, and he crumples to a small heap on the ground.

 

“What the fuck’s wrong with you!” Astrid screams while Eodwulf shouts “Are you okay?” But he can no longer speak. Even if he could, the only words he could say were “I killed them”. Detachedly he notices that his cheek is stinging and that Astrid is shaking him by the shoulders. _Ah_ , he thinks, _she must’ve slapped me._ Her voice is murky as if it’s filtered through thousands of feet of water. He thinks maybe she is yelling at him to get up. He cannot. “Fuck this” she growls, “this isn’t working”.  _I KILLED them_ he thinks.  _I killed them, and I am a murderer._ He goes limp on the ground.

 

“What do we do?” Eodwulf asks.

 

“We take him back to Ikithon and see if he can beat some sense back into him,” Astrid says with calm determination. “And if he can’t? Well then, that’s one less person for us to compete with. Come on! Grab his arm, help me get him out of here. We still have work to do and I don’t want to be in this shit town any longer than we have to.” Eodwulf rushes to comply and the two of them begin dragging his limp body away from the burning house.

 

The screams have stopped, and the walls of the house are beginning to collapse. The night is quiet again, with only the songs of summer bugs left to accompany the fire’s ever-diminishing roar. As his companions drag him away, he stares back at the rubble that was his house with glassy eyes and thinks “I’m sorry”.

 


End file.
